


Should Have Brought A Sword

by SomebodyGetsIt



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dycedarg being creepy, Dycedarg manipulating/intimidating, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Intimidation, Milleuda stabbing, Theft, Violence, captive/tied-up Milleuda, slightly Stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyGetsIt/pseuds/SomebodyGetsIt
Summary: Milleuda tries to rob the Beoulve Manse. Alternate Universe.
Relationships: Dycedarg Beoulve/Milleuda Folles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Should Have Brought A Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the content warning tags. There is knife violence. Also, specifically warning that a female character is bound, intimidated, and manipulated by a male character, after robbing and injuring him. This is undeniably creepy, but also was written with a hurt/comfort theme, if you're into that kind of thing. It's an alternate universe FFT scenario.

Milleuda Folles carefully closed the door behind her, before setting her stack of laundry down on an ornamental table. 

It looked like she had finally found the master bedroom.

Fifteen nerve-wracking minutes ago, she had snatched some folded clothing off of a large pile while a laundress had been facing away. Then, she had walked into the Beoulve manse through a back door used by the servants, trying her damnedest to look as if she belonged here.

Milleuda had not worn her armor or carried her sword. If she ran into trouble, she had only her dagger (tucked into a deep hidden pocket in her skirt) to defend herself.

She strongly wished things were different. Under more favorable circumstances, the Corpse Brigade would have infiltrated this building from all sides, by force. They would have gladly cut down any Beoulve who crossed their path, as they raided the manse. The selfish pricks had it coming, in Milleuda’s opinion.

Unfortunately, circumstances for the Corpse Brigade were more dismal than ever. A great number of her fellows had been killed or injured in their last attack on a nobleman’s home, and what was left of the Brigade had been forced to flee without taking any spoils. Having retreated to their secret den in southern Eagrose, they were currently licking their wounds and trying to figure out what to do next.

Milleuda had eaten nothing other than watery broth for three days. They had no gil left, thanks to their failed raid. They could not rally for another attack, weak and hungry as they were. When faced with the fact they might all die in the former fishermen’s den, having accomplished nothing of worth… 

Wiegraf had eventually suggested this plan. It had to be either Milleuda or Wiegraf himself who took the risk. At this point, they could not ask anyone beneath them to do it, without appearing craven or manipulative. 

They had decided it should be her. Milleuda could more easily pass as a servant, wandering around the Beoulve manse. If she could get her hands on any items of great value, then they could hawk them to buy food and supplies. Enough to build up the Brigade’s strength until they might attack the Beoulve manse in earnest.

Hunger and poverty had robbed Milleuda of many things in the past year. It did not feel shameful to her, now, to steal from those who had more than they needed.

Milleuda had assumed that any easily-portable trinkets owned by Lord Beoulve would be kept in this cavernous bedroom. Glancing around, she noted that the paneling on the walls was exquisitely worked, with wood wainscoting and intricate crown molding. She hated to play the part of the wide-eyed country bumpkin, but she had never before set foot in a room this grand. 

There was an unlit fireplace to the right, flanked by two banners bearing the Beoulve crest. Against the left wall there was a large bed draped in rich purple coverings, and straight ahead a desk sat in front of the room’s bank of windows. 

The cloudy afternoon was beginning to fade into an even cloudier evening, and the white-curtained windows did a poor job of illuminating the entire room. Milleuda walked over to the huge desk, which looked like it belonged to some sort of mad chemist. She ignored the jars full of various mystery liquids (she doubted those would be easy to sell), but began to sort through some of the other items on the cluttered worktop. Odd-looking rocks and feathers, a small mummified mammal. She examined what looked like a large, uncut emerald. 

While stuffing it into her empty pocket, her hands shook. They shook constantly now; she was so lightheaded with hunger.

Some of the books stacked here appeared to be from another era entirely. Might they be valuable to the right buyer, she wondered?

The door to the bedroom suddenly flew open and Milleuda whirled around, still holding a book.

The man entering wore a jacket done in shades of silver and black, and his hair was either light brown or dark blond (she couldn’t tell in this murky lighting). He was stocky as well as tall, and Milleuda very much wished she had brought her sword, after all.

He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him, but the expression on his face quickly slid from confusion to anger, as she reached behind herself to put the book back. 

“Why are you touching my desk?!” he thundered, “I’ve told all of you a thousand times that no one is to touch anything on my desk, not even to clean!”

Milleuda took a few steps away from his precious desk. He thought she really was a servant. Good. Let him keep believing that for just a few seconds more so she could make her escape.

Except, now he was moving closer and peering intently at her face. Shit.

“Were you recently hired? I’ve never seen you before,” he said.

Shit, shit, shit! Milleuda was a knight, a fighter—she was no skilled actor. She knew her panic was showing clearly on her face. She spun and sprinted for the door. Five steps later, he had grasped on to her arm.

“Do not run away from me—I asked who you are!” he repeated.

Reacting mostly on instinct, Milleuda used her free arm to withdraw her knife from its hidden pocket, pivoting and slashing at the man’s midsection. She hoped for a solid stab, but he twisted in time for the wound to be shallow—it felt like the sharp knife only slashed an inch or two past the cloth of his fastened jacket.

Still, he bellowed in pain. Milleuda used the moment to try to stab him again, but he grabbed onto her knife-wielding wrist now, too. They grappled, both in terror for their lives, and in the struggle, he shoved her such that she accidentally gashed her left forearm with the blade held in her own right hand. She dropped the knife with a shriek, blood burbling from her wound.

The man seemed not to understand what had just happened. He violently threw Milleuda away from him, looking around for the suddenly missing blade. Nearly as soon as her body struck the floor, Milleuda was also frantically searching for her knife. Then, the man leapt at her again, this time landing mostly on top of her and smashing her head against the hard floor with a crack.

****

Milleuda awoke to find herself on her side, on a bed. Her vision continually veered back and forth between clarity and blurriness, but she could see someone sitting at the desk halfway across the room, working by the light of a glass lamp. She recognized it was the man she had fought. His black-and-silver doublet was now draped on the back of his chair, and he was wearing a mustard-colored shirt. She saw there was blood on his clothing, and on the floor nearby.

She watched as he took portions of fluids from multiple jars arrayed on his tabletop, mixing some with others. The man was definitely part of the nobility, but was he also some sort of chemist? She had never heard of chemists operating in private homes. 

Milleuda stopped herself from emitting a pained groan. Everything hurt so much. Her wounded arm, her aching head… Groping with her fingers, Milleuda could feel that her wrists had not only been tied together behind her back, but had also been attached to her bound ankles with a length of rope, or maybe just tightly twisted strips of cloth. 

She was trussed up like an animal for slaughter, and the knots were too tight for her half-numb fingers to ever hope to pick. She wouldn’t have a chance to run from whatever was going on here. Milleuda’s fumbling fingers found that the spare knife she had stored in one of her boots had already been removed by whoever had tied her up.

She was careful not to make any noise, though she hurt enough that she would have liked to cry. She was certain she was going to die soon—separated from her friends and Wiegraf—and the best she could hope was that her death would be quick. She was dizzy, she was in agony, and she had to face this all alone. She might be tortured further, once that strange man noticed she was awake.

Milleuda found herself desperately wishing for her mother. 

Nothing was ever really the same, after losing her the year before last. There was a void in her life, even during what passed for happy moments. She knew she wasn’t completely alone… It was true that Wiegraf cared for her, Milleuda thought. But Wiegraf had so many other concerns… she would never be his first priority, or even one of his major priorities. 

And wasn’t that the story with most everyone else she had met in her short life? In seeking warmth from others, she had been disappointed time and time again. Not one of her friends had even spoken against her coming to the Beoulve Manse alone, and putting her own life on the line for the good of the group.

Milleuda wished she could feel her mother’s arms around her just once more, before she faced her death in this dimly lit room. It would have been easier to die on a battlefield, she thought, with friends fighting nearby and the slight hope that some of them might survive to give her a decent burial. 

Roiling with agony, Milleuda wished there was even a single person she could count on to come to her rescue.

When the nobleman seemed satisfied with the concoction he had mixed, he lifted the glass to his lips and drank down every last drop. He wiped his mouth, rubbed vigorously at his eyes, and then he leaned forward over the desk, groaning and cupping his face in his hands. Milleuda watched him sitting like that until he abruptly looked up, and saw that her eyes were open.

The man shot out of his chair and rushed over to her. 

Hadn’t she stabbed him in his belly? He moved as if he had taken no injuries. Milleuda definitely felt the pain in her own forearm, where her blade had been forced into her flesh. She couldn’t examine the wound, due to her hands being bound behind her back, but it felt as though he had tied some sort of cloth bandage around her arm to slow the bleeding.

“Who are you and who sent you here?” the man demanded.

Milleuda’s head was still spinning. “…My brother sent me,” she groaned.

“To assassinate me?” he said. He shook her shoulder, and the sharp movement brought her thoughts slightly further into focus.

“No! If I planned to kill you, I’d have brought my sword,” she grumbled. “We just need money.”

“Who are you? And your brother?” he yelled. “What fool sends his sister to rob the home of a knight? You know the penalty is hanging, do you not?”

There was a great intensity to this man’s face. His beard did not manage to conceal the hard, angry set of his lips.

Milleuda said nothing, while staring down at the beautiful purple blanket beneath her. She was still trying to catch her breath, fighting the pain throbbing through so many parts of her body.

The nobleman’s voice took on a softer tone. “If your family needed money desperately enough to risk stealing from House Beoulve, then why did your brother not come in your stead? He must value you very little.”

Milleuda flinched. It wasn’t that! Never mind the hurtful thoughts in the back of her mind which whispered similar things, when Wiegraf first asked her to do this. No, it wasn’t that at all! Wiegraf said a young woman carrying laundry could move more freely through a house like this than an unknown, burly man. Wiegraf would of course have done it himself, if he were able… he valued her, he did… 

“My brother thought I would have a better chance of success,” she eventually muttered. 

The man scoffed, “Did he think we would hand you all of our valuables, just because you’re pretty?” He touched the side of her head, very lightly. “Tell me your brother’s name, girl. If he formed this plan, then perhaps he should be the one to face the consequences.”

Milleuda bared her gritted teeth. “My brother’s name is Wiegraf Folles, and no greedy nobleman will ever manage to lay hands on him!”

The man took a step back, as if she had just tried to bite him. “Folles, of the Corpse Brigade,” he said, in a deadly tone. 

It was difficult to bring any bravado into her voice, while hogtied and in agony, but Milleuda did her best. “Yes! Of the Corpse Brigade!”

“Then, you are part of the Brigade, as well?” he said.

“I am!”

The man looked annoyed. “How can you say that with such pride? You are honestly proud to be a part of a group that murders and steals indiscriminately?”

“We do not!” Milleuda exclaimed. “We murder only those who stole from us in the first place! And we steal from them so that we might have enough food only to survive! What choice did you leave us, when you nobles dismissed us without our pay? How else could we feed our families?”

“The last noble House your people attacked played no role in withholding any soldiers’ pay, and you did not hesitate to slit their throats! Your brother thinks he will be written as a martyr in our history books, but he is nothing more than a madman, dragging the rest of you along to your deaths,” the man said.

“He is trying to prevent us starving in the streets!” Milleuda retorted.

“It looks to me like he is only hurrying you toward your death, sending you here,” the man said. “What am I supposed to do with you now? You admit you are a member of the Corpse Brigade.”

Milleuda could not understand why he was even bothering to have this discussion. From her own knowledge of the aristocracy, she had expected to have a noose around her neck already. Whatever his intentions for keeping her here, they could not be beneficial to her.

“Kill me and have done with it,” she snarled.

“Are you so eager to die?” he asked.

Milleuda felt something violent rushing up through her lungs. Was she eager to die?? 

This noble piece of crap, it didn’t even occur to him that the answer might be yes. And, why would it occur to him?? He, who had never fallen asleep on an empty, aching stomach. Never watched a friend lie deathly ill, knowing there was not enough gil to buy medicine.

She despised the trembling she felt in her lips, the burning in her eyes. As much as her pride might wish for her to die stoically… pride and stoicism required strength, and she was already spent. She had been spent for days now, even before their fight. 

Milleuda did not bother to answer his question.

“Won’t you at least tell me your name?” he asked.

Milleuda still did not reply, putting most of her focus on refusing to allow the tears in her eyes to drop.

The man returned to his desk. He opened some of the jars and vials he had been fiddling with before, using a dropper to transfer a purple liquid into an empty glass.

“I am Lord Dycedarg Beoulve. This is my manse, which you were attempting to rob,” he said.

She had already known that he must be a Beoulve, but hearing the name aloud brought a fresh wave of rage. He claimed to be the head of this House, which meant he may have actually had a hand in denying her and her friends their pay. She knew the influence the Beoulves had with the duke of Gallione, and even with the king himself.

“I know of your family, and you deserve to be robbed! That, and much more!” Milleuda said.

Lord Dycedarg’s calm façade fell away instantaneously. “How can you say what I deserve? I have never even met you before today!”

“You and your kind have robbed from my people since long before my birth or yours! You take from us until we have nothing left!” Milleuda shrieked. “You denied us even our pay, for honest work! We protected our country for years, and then you threw us away when you no longer needed us!”

“I am not to blame for your misfortunes!” Dycedarg barked.

“You are! As long as you bear the name Beoulve, you are an enemy to me.”

Dycedarg flashed her an annoyed glance. “I prefer not to be compared to the rest of my family. I am my own man,” he insisted.

“Hah! Does that lie comfort you at night? You are all the same, you nobles. All of you!”

Dycedarg shrugged, smiling slightly. “I would not say that we are all the same. I killed my own father… Does that not make me different?”

Milleuda stared at him as his words settled in. 

She knew that the old lord of House Beoulve had died a few years ago, just before the end of the war, but she heard his death had been from prolonged illness… What had his name been? Something like Barnabel?

Was this Dycedarg’s sick way of jesting with her? If this Beoulve really had murdered his lord father, and passed it off as illness… and he had just admitted that crime to her… then, her own death was surely arriving soon.

“Why would you do that?” she asked. The pounding pain in her head didn’t allow her to come up with a more creative reply. She wondered whether her skull had been cracked, when he dashed her head against the floor.

Dycedarg added a few drops of a clear liquid to the glass, and the mixture hissed. “Do you really wish to know?” he said.

Why not? she thought. The conviction that she would die very soon made everything else feel strange. Her thoughts were now painfully clear, but every part of her body shook with dread. Even the boasting lies of some madman noble might help to soothe her now.

“Yes,” she said.

Dycedarg looked like he was pondering the answer very deeply. “He lacked ambition,” he eventually replied. “And I had no right to wield the power of my family name, while he lived…” Dycedarg’s lip curled into a sneer. “He did not even have the decency to die at an appropriate age! Ivalice is better without him, I assure you. My lord father’s biggest passions were drinking and whoring. He took no interest in using his authority to improve this world you despise so much.”

“Are you saying you will make such improvements, then, Beoulve? Because I recall it was years ago that your lord father died, and yet Ivalice remains ever as miserable.”

“I do not claim I can cure what ails Ivalice,” he scoffed. “But I trust I can do more than my fool of a father! I, at least, recognize opportunities when they are made available to me.”

Before Milleuda could ask what that meant, Dycedarg stood. The glass in his hand held a bubbling liquid in a vile shade of pink. He approached the bed, where she lay bound.

So, this is it, Milleuda thought. The end. She tried once more to rally her courage. 

This would be a relief. Her arm felt like it was being constantly stung by a swarm of bees, where he had made her stab herself with her own blade. And her head felt so damaged— every little movement and word brought on a jolt of pain and nausea. 

And even through all of that, the ache of her empty stomach was always with her. She knew nothing but pain, and she was so tired of enduring. There was nothing in store for her and her friends, nothing but more pain and loss and hunger. 

Even if they abandoned their rebellion, even if they somehow found homes and farms to work… the nobility would take everything, as they always did, calling it “tax.” Her people would still hunger, no matter how they endeavored. Wiegraf’s words had been lies— there was no hope for them. The best she could ask was that the concoction in Dycedarg Beoulve’s hand would end her life quickly.

“My name is Milleuda,” she said. It felt frighteningly important, all of a sudden, that he should know.

“Milda?”

“Mill-eww-duh,” she said, slowly. If they gave her any sort of grave marker, she didn’t fucking want it to say she was called Milda.

“Well then, Milleuda. I’m going to move you upright so you can drink this.”

As Dycedarg maneuvered her so that she was propped up on her knees, hands still painfully bound to her ankles behind her, Milleuda asked, “Is it a swift poison? If it’s not, then I might rather have my throat cut, if you’re feeling merciful.”

Dycedarg looked blank for a moment. “It acts swiftly,” he said, gesturing with the glass.

He didn’t ask whether she had any last words. Despite trying to convince herself this was for the best, Milleuda felt her heart racing. She was flushed with fear, even dizzier than she had been a moment ago. Dycedarg pressed the edge of the glass to her lips, and she drank when he tipped it. Better to get this over with quickly, she told herself.

Still, she felt a fresh burst of sorrow that she would not be able to say goodbye to Wiegraf, or any of her friends. They might never even learn of her fate. 

What had been the point of her life, if it was doomed to end here, she wondered? She had lost so much and accomplished so very little. 

Unexpectedly, it occurred to her that this man, Lord Dycedarg Beoulve, would go on with his normal life after her corpse was thrown out. Continue being rich and handsome and arrogant, while her body began to rot somewhere. By the Saint, why was nothing ever fair? He probably had an adoring wife and a gaggle of chubby children, waiting just down the hallway to congratulate daddy for so efficiently getting rid of that pesky thief. 

That was all she was, as far as they were concerned. Those fucking nobles.

After she drank the poison, which had a sharp taste similar to underripe raspberries, Dycedarg helped her to lie back on the pillows. He took care to put her in a position that wouldn’t crush her injured arm, angling her onto her side. It was more consideration than she expected from someone like him. 

When his hands were gone, Milleuda closed her eyes. She hoped that Dycedarg had not lied—hoped the poison would work fast. At least she would soon be free of the burning agony in her head and her arm. That was the only thing left to pray for—that death would not increase her misery, but put an end to it.

The pain wracking her body did begin to fade, after a few minutes. She was surprised to once more feel Dycedarg Beoulve’s fingers on her injured arm. It felt like he was lifting one edge of the bandage tied around her wound.

“That should be feeling better by now?” he asked. Now, his fingers touched the side of her head, where the pain had been the worst, and where she imagined her hair must be matted with drying blood.

Startled, Milleuda opened her eyes.

“You—you healed me?!” she sputtered.

He continued exploring through her hair, lifting strands to check that the wound had sealed.

Hot tears slipped down Milleuda’s cheeks, in a torrent now that she had finally unleashed them. 

“What do you want with me?” she cried.

Milleuda had thought she had finally been provided an end to her suffering. This could not be good, that he wished to keep her alive yet longer. He must mean for her to swing from a noose, after all—and only the Saint knew what sort of mistreatment she might have to endure on the way to the gallows, in front of a jeering crowd.

She couldn’t take any more. To have her wounds healed, so that she could suffer even further. It was too much. She could not stop weeping, now that she had started. How could she possibly keep going? She still felt the light-headed misery of three days’ starvation. Would anyone bother to feed her, while she waited to be hanged?

Dycedarg continued to pet her hair, stroking wavy auburn strands away from her damp forehead, to be tucked behind her ear. Well past using logic or judgment, Milleuda leaned her head into the touch.

Eventually taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened her eyes again. The Beoulve’s stare was softer than before, and he used one large thumb to swipe a tear off of her cheek.

Knowing it was too much to hope for, Milleuda asked, “Is there anything I could eat?”

****

Rain had begun to lash at the windows, and the dull crash of thunder could also be heard, still far off. Milleuda wondered if Wiegraf was out searching for her around the Beoulve manse. 

The room was growing dark and chill with nightfall when Dycedarg returned with a dish that reminded her of shepherd’s pie. The smell and sight of the hot food made her eyes water again, as well as her mouth. Were her wrists not tied together behind her back, she might have snatched the plate from him and dived in.

Rather than free Milleuda’s hands, Dycedarg spoon-fed her. The potatoes and vegetables were swoon-worthy, and the dish even contained a generous amount of pulverized meat (she did not ask or care what type it was). It had been months since she last ate a meal so rich, and Dycedarg had to warn her a few times to slow down, to chew. He made her pause between the bites he offered.

“You’ll make yourself sick, if it has been three days since your last meal,” he said. “I would know. I went four days without food on the front lines—and when supplies finally arrived, I ate an entire day’s worth of rations in one sitting.” He looked chagrined. “I threw it all up pretty soon afterward, as well.”

Milleuda knew all of this—she was no stranger to hunger. The knowledge didn’t make it any easier to stop eating, when one was starving.

As Dycedarg fed her, and even helped her drink water, a serving boy swept in and started a fire in the grate at the far side of the room. The servant did not knock before entering; did not look at the bed where his lord sat feeding a bound woman. The boy acted as if he were completely oblivious to his surroundings. After the fire had quickened, the servant left as silently as he had entered. Dycedarg gave no indication that he even noticed the boy’s presence, and Milleuda marveled that people could live this way.

Her stomach took the food with no trouble, thanks to Dycedarg’s forced pacing of the meal. It was strange, she thought, how gratitude could be a physical feeling. Her body felt glowing with relief, to be full. Her head was warm, heavy and drowsy, where before it had known only trembling pain.

The whole room appeared different now that she was no longer shaking and wounded. None of this made sense to her. How comfortable this man seemed, sitting here spoon-feeding a peasant who had stabbed him earlier today.

“Thank you for the food… Lord Dycedarg,” she added the title reluctantly. “I feel much better. Will you untie me, now? My muscles are really starting to cramp.”

She still didn’t know what he planned for her. She still assumed this would all end at the gallows. That made her only more willing to ask for favors while she still could, while he was inexplicably showing kindness. What did she have to lose, at this point? 

Dycedarg didn’t respond right away, and her calm dignity didn’t last for more than a few moment’s silence. “Please! Just please untie me!”

Gripping her shoulder and looking her closely in the eye, Dycedarg said, “I mean this very seriously. Do not. Try. To run. I will have to kill you.” 

Milleuda nodded. Dycedarg unexpectedly lifted her up, carting her over to the fireplace, where the light was better. The ease with which he carried her was surprising. She often went hungry, but she was not a frail or small woman. She had a sturdy frame, with dense muscles.

Near the fire, Dycedarg propped her between his legs, her face resting in his neck as he reached around to cut through all of her intricately knotted bonds. 

Milleuda made sounds that were purely animal, as the knife released her and her limbs were allowed to fall back into their natural positions. It was an amazing relief, but it also hurt fiercely as the cramps began to release. 

She pulled her aching arms forward, wrapped them around his neck. Her legs scrabbled, happy to be free. She was shamefully clinging to him, this strange nobleman who claimed he had killed his own father. He was as soft and warm as the meal he had fed her, and he let her hold on to him, let her rest her cheek heavily on his broad shoulder as they sat before the fire.

Dycedarg rubbed a hand up and down her back. She felt his breath on the side of her head. Then, his other hand moving over her hair. 

Milleuda liked it, this slow hair petting. The feeling eased her nearly into a trance. His hand stroked her scalp, nails lightly brushing each time, and then his fingers slid down through her hair, over and over. Predictable, steady. She lay limp against him, letting him soothe her.

Not meaning to, she made a small squeak of a noise.

“You’re alright now,” Dycedarg murmured. 

Milleuda released a large breath and squeezed him tighter, allowing his sheer mass to anchor her.

“Your hair curls in just the same way my mother’s did,” Dycedarg said.

“I like how you’re touching it,” Milleuda replied, sleepily.

He shifted, resumed his stroking of her hair. “Saint knows I shouldn’t, but I like touching you, Milleuda. I like how you’re touching me.”

She could feel his beard grazing her temple. Knew that if she lifted her face, then their lips would touch. That he expected she would lift her face.

“Are you going to let me go back to my brother?” she asked into the warm skin of his neck.

The tension released. “Do you want to go back to your brother?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Won’t he send you off to be killed in some other manse?”

Milleuda snorted. It wasn’t funny, but Dycedarg’s tone of voice made it so. “Well, what do you plan to do with me, then?” she asked, finally uttering the question that had plagued her since awakening. “Is it to be the gallows for me?”

“No,” he grumbled, “I would prefer not to kill you… I could give you work, if you are willing to cooperate with me… safer assignments than your brother gives you, at any rate.”

Milleuda was so tired. The day had been trying. She barely heard anything he said, after he told her he didn’t want to send her to the gallows.

“My brother only asked me to do this because I could blend in with your servants better than he could hope to. We needed money, to continue our mission,” she said.

Dycedarg laughed. “He calls what you do a mission? He and all of his followers will be eradicated within the month. They are significantly outnumbered and they will be crushed by the Order of the Northern Sky. Why does he persist? He leads you and the others to your deaths! His rebellion was doomed to fail from the very start.”

“What would you have done, in our shoes?” Milleuda demanded, letting her nails slightly dig into his back. It was so strange, to enjoy the solidity of his body cradling hers, while feeling such rage at his scornful words. “If you worked as a soldier for years, and then the country you served refused to pay you for your service?”

“I’d not have wandered around attacking the homes of simple knights!” He paused. “Changes must be made at the highest levels, if your circumstances are ever to improve. I’d have taken a very different approach than your brother… I would never act without a plan, and specific goals in sight.”

She thought of the late Lord Beoulve. “What are your goals, Dycedarg?” she whispered.

“My goals are not so different from yours. I would tell you about them, if you agreed to work for me.”

Milleuda sighed. “Where am I to sleep tonight?” she asked.

“My bed, or bound up beside it,” he said. “I’ll not allow you the chance to escape this room unless I have your allegiance. I’ve told you more tonight than I’ve admitted to anyone in years… It is odd how it is sometimes easiest to confess to a stranger.”

In the bed, Dycedarg began to untie the cloth bandage from Milleuda’s wounded forearm. When the skin was exposed, they both saw that the former gash was nothing more than a pink, smooth line. Whatever healing concoction he had prepared for her, it had been most effective.

Holding her wrist a moment longer, Dycedarg gently stroked his fingers down the length of the scar. Milleuda closed her eyes for a moment, a small, pleasant shiver coursing through her.

“It doesn’t hurt any longer?” he asked.

Milleuda sighed, shook her head.

“Let me see yours, too,” she said.

He lay back and pulled the hem of his shirt up to his ribs. She saw a sparse amount of dark hair on his lower belly, as well as two long crisscrossing marks just to the right of his navel.

Dycedarg watched her expression as she leaned over him. “You cut me in a place I had already been cut before,” he said, with a strange grin.

Smiling back at him, Milleuda affectionately traced her fingertips over both scars—the older one dull and wide, and the one she had given him still fresh and slightly puckered. She watched the muscles in his stomach tense, watched his fingers twitch loosely at his sides.

“I’m sorry for stabbing you,” she said, laying her palm soft and flat against his marred skin. “Perhaps you did not deserve it. Time will tell.”

He made a small noise, almost like a kitten’s sleeping purr, as he placed his large hand over hers.

“You were brave to come here, Milleuda. You’re a good person, to risk your life to help your friends. It’s more than I would have done, in your place.”

Milleuda shook her head. “I didn’t help them at all,” she said, in a small voice.

“You are one person— you cannot keep an entire rebellion afloat on your own! They should not have asked this of you.” He reached out, “You could try letting someone else help you, for a change.”

Milleuda lay back down next to him, feeling languorous, and Dycedarg rolled onto his side. The loose collar of his shirt exposed the edge of a circular tattoo over his breast—she thought it looked like it might be the zodiac wheel. His fingers slid over her hair again, stroking it lazily out of her face. She noticed they were both breathing at the same easy rate.

Dycedarg never broke eye contact, his face so close to her own, as he said, “You could stay here, with me… I would like it if you stayed. We might actually achieve those goals of yours.”

Milleuda wriggled closer to him, resting her head in the warm burrow where his chest met his shoulder. Dycedarg wrapped a heavy arm around her, holding her. She felt more comfortable than she could ever remember.

“And how would we do that?” Milleuda said.

She thought she could feel him smiling, in the sudden rise of his chest.

“Well. We would start by killing a marquis.”

****


End file.
